


ogham

by traveller



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-01
Updated: 2003-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Tree-hugger, caught in the act," Sean continues happily. "Wish I had me camera."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	ogham

He says a few lines over, under his breath, even though he's not on set now, not even rehearsing, but only because they feel good on his tongue. He runs his fingers over rough bark and tacky pitch, presses his cheek to the trunk. There is something there, yes, something that is no more or less than simply: tree. Something warm and earthbound and comforting, something that makes him think of his granny and how, when he was very small, he'd sit under the table while she was peeling potatoes and press his face into her lap, into her apron. Granny's apron smelled like milk and sweetbread and cookies and also the faint, not unpleasant, smell of the hard yellow soap she used for washing everything from laundry to hair.

He turns his face, presses his nose to the tree; underneath the pitch and wood smells there is a faint sweetness, almost like gingerbread. He flings his arms around the tree, laughing. Maybe that's why Hansel and Gretel went munching to their doom, not because it all looked so delicious, but because it smelled like home. Like safety, like all things good, and what could possibly be wrong with that? With trusting?

He hugs the tree tighter; high above the branches are whispering to one another, tangling their fingers together to shake, well met, well met. "What secrets do you know?" he asks, his lips scraping roughly against the bark. "What have you seen, what have you heard?"

The forest reminds him of Grand Central Station: right in the middle of it it is both loud and quiet all at once. A whisper carries from one side to the other, a shout is swallowed and absorbed. The same half-light, too. The same sense of being in the core of something powerfully alive, all this energy being passed back and forth, over your head and under your feet, all these souls and their eyes meeting for just a second, long enough to be known and then forgotten.

"Oi, I came to... oh."

He raises his eyes from the minute contemplation of the whorls of bark: _that is Sean and Sean belongs here, even if he doesn't know it, here in the pine city where it is green and happy and safe._ "Hey."

"Everything they said about you was true," Sean says, laughter bubbling in his voice, love to drink it, that perfectly blended whiskey voice.

Viggo has to hold on very tightly to keep from blurting out 'The Macallan!' He's done times before, said something like that, and then by the time he's finished explaining how he got from the first thought thunk to the last word said, Sean's only reaction is, 'I don't get it.

"Tree-hugger, caught in the act," Sean continues happily. "Wish I had me camera."

Viggo nudges his rucksack with the toe of his boot. "Use mine," he mumbles.

"Nah," Sean says, and leans on the tree in front of Viggo's. "Prefer to remember it, like. Stays between us that way."

Viggo nods. "Yeah." Good, Sean knows, see, he understands more than he thinks he understands, and so maybe he knows more than he says. You know? "Do you know?" he whispers to the tree. "Do you see?"

And now Sean is watching him with more concern than amusement; he comes over, puts his hand in the middle of Viggo's back, right between his shoulder blades. He would like to get the lines of Sean's palm tattooed right there, if it would mean that he would always feel that warmth, that strength, flooding from that point out into his limbs.

"Y'okay?" Sean asks, with his words, his lips, close to Viggo's ear. Why do people shiver sometimes when they feel something hot, and why isn't he used to it by now? Especially Sean's breath, which he has shared so many times - why does it still make him want to cling to the earth, for fear he'll blow away?

Viggo nods again. "Sort of. Maybe. Not really."

"Mmm." Sean's lips press humidly to the back of Viggo's neck. "I didn't think so."

"You found me." The obvious, when overstated, can be subtle. It means that Sean looked, and further, knew _where_ to look - that is no small thing. Better or worse, Sean knows it, too.

"Of course I did," he says against Viggo's skin, sliding his arms around Viggo's chest. Sean's sweater is made of raw wool, smells like lanolin and farm and dirt and safety, same as the tree, except different. It doesn't scratch.

Slow, careful, gentle, Sean's hands come between Viggo and the bark, pulling him away, turning him round. He leans in, presses his forehead against Viggo's. Viggo feels like he should say something, so he closes his eyes and says, "Yes, of course."

Sean laughs softly, little puffs of coffee-and-cigarette warmth brush over Viggo's lips, and then it's Sean's mouth doing the brushing, tasting. Not so steady anymore, Sean's hands on his hips, but the tree is firm behind him, the tree can support them both if it must. Sean's hands, shakysure, cupping him through his jeans, and Viggo inhales sharply, his mouth grasping at air where there is suddenly so little. Yes, of course, Sean knew, knows, even if he never says the words, Sean knows. Sean eats all of Viggo's secrets out of his mouth, swallows them and smiles and then will give Viggo a taste back, or will leave a letter here, a word there, on his skin.

When Sean goes down, Vig's jeans go with him; Sean on his knees, Vig's jeans at his knees. It's too cool to be doing this outside, the ground is damp, and he tries to tell Sean, tries to say, not here, not now, this isn't necessary. You don't _have_ to. Manages to breathe out the first two words and Sean laughs again, seems like Sean is always laughing, not at him, near him, on him, laughing with teeth and tongue just below his navel. Those hands, tugging his boxers down now, stroking his cock now, one thumb brushing like a sweet soft metronome over his hipbone.

He tilts his head back, opens his eyes on the branches above, the intricate tatwork of the canopy, the odd drop of rain now falling, splashing his cheeks, his lips. His hands tighten in Sean's hair and then release, doesn't do to hurt, and Sean murmurs his thanks which makes Viggo gasp again. Sean goes down down down, he licks hard and sucks gently, then he switches, repeats. Viggo bites his lower lip, tastes pine pitch, and thinks he hears the tree behind him sigh as he comes, or maybe it's Sean, or maybe it's everything.

Sean puts him back together, tucks him in, zips him up. "D'ya have something warmer in your pack?" he asks, rubbing Viggo's bare arms, rocking his still-hard cock against Viggo's hips. "D'ya want my jumper?"

"I have a flannel," Viggo answers, can't hold back the smile when Sean snorts. "A flannel _shirt_. Not a washcloth."

Sean shakes his head, grabs the pack and fishes out the shirt; Viggo puts it on obediently, even does up a couple of buttons. He grabs hold of one of Sean's belt loops, tugs, brings them hip to hip again, suddenly longing for it, to be held and opened and whole again. He doesn't suppose Sean thought to grab the lube when he set out to look for him, says as much in between kisses. Sean swirls his tongue over Viggo's, pulls him forward, away from the tree.

"Nah, let's go back to the house." Sean hugs Viggo tightly, then releases him suddenly; he stumbles, grabs at Sean and pulls him back, back to Viggo's hands and mouth, back to the tree.

"No, now. Please." He doesn't sound longing, though, merely breathless.

Sean shakes his head, although he groans when Viggo strokes his cock, although he sighs when Viggo kisses that spot just below his ear. Sean shakes his head, says, "No, let's go home. I can wait."

"Wait for what?" Viggo looks at him, god of the grove, golden haired and muddy kneed and his smile sings.

"For you," Sean says simply.

Behind him, the tree echoes Sean's voice in a dark green whisper: _For you, for you, for you._


End file.
